


the catastrophe factor

by crownsandbirds



Series: nanowrimo 2018 [3]
Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Beach House, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Sexual Content, Trans Male Character, Unhealthy Relationships, Unplanned Pregnancy, ging is an awful father, trans!ging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-07
Updated: 2018-11-07
Packaged: 2019-08-20 01:46:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16546463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crownsandbirds/pseuds/crownsandbirds
Summary: "There were worst ways of starting a life. 'Well, if you're so sure-''I am.''Yes, okay. I can find you a place. Any specific requirements?'Another pause, now filled with something like a pensive longing. 'Somewhere by the sea.'"Ging calls asking for help after two years of silence.





	the catastrophe factor

**Author's Note:**

> "i didn't need you that night  
> not gonna need you anytime  
> was gonna take it as it goes  
> i could go forward in the light  
> well, i better fold my clothes."
> 
> (33 "GOD" - bon iver)

Some mornings were slower than others. In some mornings, especially those that greeted the day with coldly gentle rain and grey skies, everyone around him had a slightly slouched posture, their reaction time longer, their words more dragged out - even their aura felt lazier. In those occasions, Pariston usually allowed his mind to grow a bit duller on the corners, allowed the permanent sadness inside him weigh on his chest and the boredom fill his thoughts.

It was in one of those mornings that Ging called him for help. 

His phone rang while he was busy laying back on his chair and idly looking out of the window, following with his eyes the trail that the raindrops created on the glass. He ignored the annoying sound for a few moments - his phone was always ringing, someone somewhere was always trying to reach him - but when he spared a glance at the screen, the name displayed in it made him straighten his back immediately, almost as an instinct engraved in his mind.

He couldn’t remember precisely the last time he had seen Ging in person -  _ two years and six months, during the last Zodiacs reunion, we all met at that big meeting room in the sixth floor, I brought everyone coffee and he said he would rather have hot chocolate - _ , and he definitely didn’t recall a single occasion in which he had called first -  _ five years or so, back when Netero forced him to because we needed to figure out a few things for the mission he was working on at the time - _

The call was a surprise. Maybe Ging was dying. He picked up. 

“Hello.” 

A brief moment of static. Probably an exasperated breath. “Yo.” 

He wasn’t dying. Pariston would never receive a phone call if Ging was dying. Maybe he had killed someone he shouldn’t have. That sounded more likely. 

“I didn’t even know you had my number saved on your phone.” 

“I don’t. But that doesn’t matter.”  he sounded as bored as always,  _ bored _ and  _ impatient _ with that nearly unnoticeable streak of attention-seeking tendencies he kept under his every word, invisible to almost everyone. And then a breath, a shift, a rustling, and Ging's voice switched, from annoyed to impossibly hard and reluctant. “I need your help.” 

“Okay.” 

Pariston had few weaknesses. Very few. Chocolate, stupid challenges, his father and Ging Freeccs. He had done things for Ging before he wasn’t proud of at all. And he would do them again.

“What do you want?”

“I'm pregnant.”

Then, Pariston had to blink a few times and think for a second. The rain kept falling outside, the employees on his floor quietly shuffling around, the papers on top of his desk still demanding to be signed. 

He felt a bit lightheaded. He took a sip of the water bottle he kept on his desk and decided to avoid standing up for a few minutes, at least until the world stopped feeling like it was spiraling out of its axis, down into the apex of the catastrophe factor.

“Okay. What do you want to do?

“I’ll need a place to stay in three or four months, until I deliver. Somewhere discreet. You know how it is.”

Pariston knew. 

_ No one can know about us, Paris. You know how it is. _

_ I need to leave for a while, Paris. You know how it is. _

_ We can't do this anymore. You know how it is. Don't worry, I'll keep in touch. _

“I can find you something." it would be ridiculously easy, too. He had done much harder things for Ging in the past, up to and including getting him inside the NGL with technological devices hidden inside his clothes so he could run a series of analysis on a particular ancient ruin without being locked up and killed. "Why not now, though?”

“It's not noticeable now, and I’m finishing up an expedition. Can't really stop out of nowhere without the team asking questions.”

“An expedition? Are you sure? Isn't it dangerous for the baby?”

No answer, but he could hear the shuffle of fabric denouncing a shrug, a gesture so unique in its absolute indifference, so distinctly Ging's that if he closed his eyes he could see it on the back of his eyelids.  _ Don't know, don't particularly care.  _

“Whose is it?”

“Mine,” Ging answered casually, but still with unmistakable traces of possessiveness and protective instinct. Either way, even if they existed, they would never be strong enough to force him to stick around and actually raise the kid. 

“The other father, I mean.” 

“I know what you meant." a pause. "No idea.”

“You could run a test.”

Ging tsked, annoyed. “There's no  _ point _ .”

"What do you mean, there's no point?"

"I won't raise this kid and neither will the father, whoever he is. I'll stop by at Whale Island and hand it over to Mito. She'll take care of everything."

Obviously. It was the most rational line of action. Mito-san, motherly and caring and gentle, would always live in the tiny, peaceful Whale Island. It was the perfect place to raise a child, among nature and near the ocean, much in the same way Ging himself had been raised. If the baby inherited even a shred of Ging's obsessive adventurous mind, they would leave at some point, and create their own story. They would probably even become a Hunter.  

There were worst ways of starting a life. "Well, if you're so sure-"

"I am."  _ stubborn, hot-headed, arrogant - _

"Yes, okay. I can find you a place. Any specific requirements?"

Another pause, now filled with something like a pensive longing. "Somewhere by the sea."

Of course he would. Pariston remembered, during some of their very brief, very intense escapades, how Ging would demand to go to the beach, could spend entire days, from early morning to deep night, lounging on the sand, working and napping and demanding kisses, the sun directly above their heads. "Fine. Call me when you want to move in."

"Will do. Thanks, Paris. I owe you one."

Normally, he would say,  _ yes you do, keep that in mind _ , but this time - he thought about the unnamed child, about life, about the future that child would create. So he said, “Don't mention it.” and then, “I thought you would want an abortion.”

Some more rustling, another deep breath. “I thought so too.” 

And the line went dead.

-

He didn't get any news from Ging for the next three and a half months. Total and complete radio silence, the sort he’d gotten used to in the last years. Normally, he didn't care - or if he did care to some degree, at the very least he didn't worry. Ging was an absolute asshole, arrogant and petty and feral like a wild animal, but he could definitely take care of himself.

Of himself, that is. 

Pariston had so much to do all the time, his thoughts were usually filled with paperwork and slightly illegal schemes and future plans, but he found he was staring out of the window more often, throwing frequent glances at his silent phone. He’d figured out with relative ease what expedition Ging was working on, and monitored it as much as possible, as if his constant worrying would prevent any disaster from happening or any dangers from falling upon the pair.

The pair.

_ A baby, Ging _ , he felt like calling him to yell sometimes.  _ This is no joke, this is no game, it's not some funny scheme we're playing to avoid being bored, it's an actual human life. _

But then he reminded himself it wouldn't make any difference. Ging rarely fucked up with his own life alone, and they were both aware of it. He tended to drag everyone else in his immediate vicinity to the mess he created. It was what made him entertaining, a challenging existence able to keep Pariston on his toes, always guessing and always thinking. 

It was also what would make him a terrible father. 

Three and a half months after that first phone call, he got another one. Another rainy, tired morning, at 5 am, raising Pariston from his usual restless sleep.

“Hey,” he said, voice rough from sleep.

“Yo. I finished up everything in my mission. I need to move in.”

Even his exhausted mind was alert enough to tell his heart to beat a little faster at hearing from Ging after so much time. So he was safe. The baby was safe. Okay, he could work with that.

“Sure. Are you in town?”

“Yeah.” 

“Meet me in my office. I'll drive you there.”

“No. I don't want to bump into fucking Cheadle or the others. They already despise me enough as it is.”

“Okay. Where are you? I'll come to find you.”

Ging huffed. “There’s no need. Just tell me where it is.” 

Pariston was sitting up on the bed already, idly listening to the raindrops falling outside. “Let me do this. I'll just set you up, after that I'll leave you alone if you don't want me around anymore.”

“Ehh…” a moment of silence as Ging thought it over. “I’m not sure about you doing so much for me. I can’t help the feeling it'll come back to bite me in the ass later.”

“It's not for you.”

Ging let out a heartless snicker. “Of course it isn't. I'll text you the address.”

-

"Being vice-chairman paying as nice as always, huh?" Ging asked from his slouched position on the passenger seat, eyes trained on the rapidly approaching sandline beside the car. Pariston's small house by the sea sat a few kilometers away from them still, but Ging was smart enough to figure out which way they were headed. 

Pariston shrugged, absently tightened his hands around the wheel. The dark lenses of his sunglasses blurred his vision of Ging a little bit, which made it easier to talk to him - but he could still clearly see the way he unconsciously kept a hand over his stomach, much in the same way a warrior keeps his fingers around his weapon or a reader taps at the cover of a beloved novel. "I suppose," he answered. "It lets me keep both houses. Not that you aren't still a lot richer than me."

Ging made a dismissing gesture. "Different life choices. It's not like I use it often anyway."

"Very different life choices."

"Starting to regret your little paperwork job, Paris?"

"Not particularly. It helps me keep this." he opened the car window and waved with his fingers at the entrance of the charming, discreet house, so close to the sea he could nearly taste it on his tongue, the wind ruffling his hair and messing up the carefully combed strands.

"I should've known you would bring me here," Ging said, voice sharp in contrast with how he stuck his head outside the window to feel the breeze on his face, closing his eyes like a pleased cat.

"You asked for somewhere discreet by the ocean. It was the most obvious choice." 

"You just like keeping me where you can see me." 

Pariston didn't answer, but he did steal a glance - Ging's hair was messed up beyond repair, his fingers intertwined over his belly, his brown eyes shining a little because of the sun. 

"It's a nice sight."

A snicker, but nothing else.

He opened the gate and parked inside, helped Ging with his luggage while completely ignoring his protests that he could carry it all by himself. They entered the house together, opened the windows and glass doors, silently working towards reviving the small place and making it somewhere a person could live for a handful of months. 

After they had done most of the work, Pariston threw himself on his favorite couch and watched the waves crash on the sand while Ging went to the bathroom to shower. 

These were painfully familiar sounds, even if old - the waves, the shower, the sea breeze, the groaning from the old rocking chair on the terrace. The last time he had come here with Ging, three or four years ago, they had brought clothes and supplies for three days maximum, and spent most of their time without making use of them, just emptying out all the best bottles of wine and lazying around on the beach and fucking in every single room. 

He felt older, now. Even more bored than before, and sadder; if he stopped to think about it, which he didn't, ever. He just kept watching the saltwater come and go. 

When Ging came out of the bathroom, he had a towel wrapped around his hips, the wet weight of his hair falling on his shoulders and over his eyes. The bump was clear now, small but obviously there, and Pariston couldn't help but look at it for a moment. 

Ging wouldn't have it, though. 

He walked to the front of the couch and climbed over Pariston's lap, movements elegant and fluid, the towel dropping forgotten on the floor. Instinctively, Pariston's hands moved to clutch at his smooth -  _ gorgeous, strong - _ thighs, and he helplessly looked up, inside those endless, cold, harsh golden eyes. The wind from the ocean whispered at their joined bodies, raising goosebumps on Ging's naked skin. He was magnetic, like he had always been, and glorious in his demands for attention and unbreakable apathy. 

_ What are we doing,  _ Pariston thought. Ging fisted the hair on the back of his head and allowed him to bury his face on the crook between his shoulder and neck. He smelled pleasantly like soap and shampoo - it almost felt unnatural not to feel his usual scent of sweat, exhaustion and old, precious things. Pariston pressed a careful kiss near his jugular.

"Are you sure?" he mumbled against his skin. His hand moved, up his thigh and over his waist, settling for a moment on the bump on his stomach.

The hold on his hair tightened painfully. "Don't ask stupid questions."

Pariston obeyed, hastily took his shirt off, and let Ging pull his head up for a kiss. 

Ging still kissed like he'd done years ago, with sharp teeth and a ferocity that felt like hatred, not a single ounce of gentleness. He kissed like he wanted blood, like he would single-handedly cause the end of the world with his lips. His nails dug mercilessly on Pariston's shoulders, but Pariston's hand remained still and light over his belly, as if he was trying to protect something that wasn't even his. 

That seemed to irritate him something awful, because he gripped Pariston's wrist and guided his hand between his legs, silently commanding him to keep his attention where he wanted it. 

His gasps when adjusting to the fingers slowly sliding inside him were sharp and almost offended, and he still kept most of his moans inside his throat, refusing to let them out his mouth. They were older now, and sadder, but some things never changed, like the way Ging bit viciously at Pariston's lower lip to stop himself from whimpering. As always, it was a battle between his stubbornness and Pariston's skill and intimate knowledge of his body - even if he refused to let him know, Pariston could feel it, as clear as the breeze biting at their backs; the tiny tremors, the way his arms were clutched at tighter in chaotic little spasms, the skittered rhythm of Ging's heartbeat when he kissed his pulse point. 

He tried to be gentle, but something in his very bones wasn't crafted for kindness - when he threw Ging on the sofa, it was forceful, and Ging's cocky little smirk up to him felt depraved and wrong all over. 

When he slid his cock inside and watched as Ging threw his head back, eyes sliding close and mouth slightly open, it felt like nostalgia and overwhelming pleasure and something so sad and lonely he couldn't describe it. He buried his face on Ging's neck again, and heard every word that was whispered in his ear then.

"Go on, Paris. Make me feel my body is mine again."

They fucked. It was filthy and raw, sweat and bite marks and teeth and groans, the sun going down as they gripped at each other with all the anger and despise born from two people who know each other too well. Pariston couldn't help but feel he was destroying something that could've been pure. 

But no, he figured, his mind feverish and blank as Ging moaned out his name while coming. There could never be anything pure about any part of this, not about Ging's dangerously sharp eyes, his vicious teeth, cruel tongue, selfish body. And then his brain blanked out and he didn't think about it at all for a few blessed seconds. 

The waves were still crashing against the sand when they sat up on the sofa again. 

"Another six months to go," said Ging, threading his fingers through his still-humid hair. He sounded a bit breathless but mostly unaffected. 

The idea of Ging by himself on a small house by the sea, waiting for something completely out of his control, sounded so absurd it confounded Pariston's exhausted mind. "Do you even remember the last time you spent six months in the same place?"

"Yes," Ging answered while bending down to grab the towel and throw it over himself. "Those months with you at headquarters."

"Hm. You're right."

Their one shot at a stable relationship for both of them. Eight months Ging spent at the town, making plans for his next overly complicated expedition somewhere in one of the prohibited areas and helping Chairman Netero establish the Zodiacs, all the while fucking nearly every single night at Pariston's house. 

It had almost saved both of them. It had, in the end, ruined both of them.

Ging had left then, over to his ruins and skeletons and old remains of past civilizations, and only visited sporadically when he was absolutely forced to. Pariston remained at his desk job, signing important papers and learning how to smile at people. 

"How did you call me if you didn't have my number saved?"

Ging shifted to grab his wallet on the tasteful center table, and after a few moments, he had a crumpled copy of Pariston's profile card between his fingers. "I had this."

"Oh. I see."

"C'mon," Ging said, getting up with some difficulty. "We can share a bed tonight. I don't feel like setting up another one."

They walked to the main bedroom after Ging downed a big glass of cold water in the kitchen, and threw themselves on the mattress, laying side by side, with considerable space between them. 

"Do you have a name already?" Pariston asked, filling the heavy silence left by a few moments of nothing being said. 

"Hmm." Ging crossed his arms under his head. "If it's a girl, my mother's name. If it's a boy, probably Gon."

"Sounds nice."

"Thank you."

They fell asleep without touching each other. The next morning was rainy and depressing, slow with memories and regrets, and Pariston woke up to an empty bed - from the large glass door in the living room, though, he could see Ging on the rocking chair on the terrace, looking out at the grey sea.  
  


**Author's Note:**

> its two am and im sad and tired and these two are fucking depressing


End file.
